Fanuilh by Daniel Hood (ebook reader with highlight function TXT) 📗

Fitch, and the beautiful dancer, and the other chief actors. Some two days after, Freihett parted, and Lons commenced his calls. I thought it no harm at first. ... " She stopped suddenly, and then resumed quickly: "But you know the rest."

"Yes," he murmured.

"And so my husband feels it partly his shame that all this has come about. He was most grieved that I took you into our secret. He guards his privacy jealously, Sir Liam, you must understand."

"I do, I do." Liam stood, torn. She looked extremely young, and unhappy, and he compared her unwillingly with Rora. The two were probably the same age, somewhere in their early twenties, but while the dancer was a mere actress, the lowest of the low, she faced her problems with fire and determination. She had sought him out, and gained his assistance, while Lady Necquer, her superior in wealth, breeding and position, allowed him to be sent away, Strangely, he felt only a grudging admiration for Rora's spirit, but he pitied the woman he was with, and wanted somehow to console her.

He would have gone to her on the couch and tried, not out of any desire to be near her, but because he sensed that was the way it was done, with quiet words and innocent caresses. However, he was not sure how she would interpret it, and moreover he did not know if he could carry it off. A lifetime in the company of men, a widowed father and scholars locked in musty books, and then rough mercenaries and sailors, had given him little chance to practice. The few women he had known would never have submitted to Lady Necquer' s lot, and had never needed that kind of comfort.

So, he cleared his throat and managed a small bow, despite the twinge it sent through his bruised body.

"I will leave you then, madam."

She did not move, so he turned and moved slowly to the door.

"Sir Liam!"

He stopped and turned around, to discover her on her feet right behind him. Before he could say anything she brushed his cheek with her lips and then backed away.

"You are very kind," she said wistfully. "I would I could hear more of your stories. Perhaps when you've written them?"

"When I have finished them, I'll send you a copy," he said, bowed again in haste, and left.

• • •

A last, thin strip of blue sky limned the northern horizon and, as Liam walked back to his garret, the clouds were rushing down to blot it out. They were coal black, roiling and angry, but the cold wind that bore them felt good. The clean salt smell supplanted the odor of Mistress Necquer's perfume.

He walked a little faster, but not much, and still kept close to the walls. The streets were emptying rapidly in anticipation of the approaching storm, and even the beggars were throwing foreboding glances at the sky. Imagining the purple bruises soon to appear over most of his upper body, he allowed himself a groan, and when he reached his house, sank into one of the kitchen chairs.

Mistress Dorcas was nowhere to be seen, but the drudge edged up to him and shyly inquired if there was anything he needed. Touched, he got a coin from his pouch and asked her if she could get him something to eat. She snatched the coin and disappeared out the door before he could specify what he wanted.

The drudge was back quickly, with a covered pot and a few loaves.

"Broth," she explained, laying the pot and the bread before him. "All that can be got on Uris's Eve, but best if y'are ill about the stomach," she added, biting her lip, afraid she might have gone too far.

He nodded. "You're wise, girl. I've known warriors who showed less sense."

She blushed and brightened at once. "Y'have?" Dipping a spoon into the broth, he laughed. "I once knew a prince—the envy of armies, the hope of his country—who won a great battle, though he took a wound to his stomach. Afterwards, he stuffed himself full of wine and roast meat, though I advised him not to, and was so sick that he missed his own victory celebration."

'Then he died," the drudge whispered, fascinated.

"No, he just lay in his bed for a day, moaning and groaning, sure someone had poisoned his food. They had to postpone his triumph, and his reputation was greatly diminished. The defeated army sent a present to the cook."

She giggled, and stopped, remembering his money. From the pocket of her smock she produced a sweaty handful of coins.

"Your money, Master," she said, and laid the change down beside his pot. He eyed it for a moment, and tasted his soup. It was only lightly spiced, not too hot, and the warmth soothed his throat. He waved his hand at the money.

"Keep it; you've done me a great service. The broth is just what I needed."

"Oh no, Master, I daren't." She shook her head and backed away from the table as though he had suggested something indecent.

"Go ahead, take it. Consider it my thanks, please."

She only shook her head and gazed fearfully at the street door, through which suddenly stalked his landlady. The thin, angular woman shot the drudge a commanding glance that sent the young girl scurrying away.

"Y'are better, then, Master Liam?"

"Much, madam, thank you. Your girl has been good enough to get me some soup, and I took a short walk that has cleared my head a great deal."

"Huh," she sniffed, and Liam sensed that she was unhappy about something. "I only hope the Aedile has nabbed the monstrous roughs who did this shameful thing."

It was not a question, but he answered it anyway. "He is looking for them right now."

'Then he'll have them, that's sure." She frowned again, but he was busy with the soup, which was doing wonders for his stomach. She puttered aimlessly around the kitchen while he ate. "Perhaps it's none of my affair, Master Liam," she said at length,